Where Angels Should Fear to Tread
by Sylver999
Summary: LaCroix enjoys a little room service. Author's Note: An older work of mine, but still fun. Enjoy!


Where Angel's Should Fear to Tread

*** This is a work of adult "Forever Knight" fan fiction, not intended for people under the age of 18. You've been warned. All Forever Knight characters are the property of Tri-Star Television. Not me. ***

LaCroix observed the girl across the room as she watched him, though her quick, fitful glances and constant panning of the room with her eyes suggested that she was _trying_ to be subtle about it. He pretended to be unaware of her probing eyes until he'd decided exactly what to do with her. LaCroix glanced at her with the quickness and precision of a flash photograph, taking in all necessary information in a split-second. She did not notice this—she was after all, only mortal.

Shiny, shoulder-length satin-black hair, curled under to frame the heart-shaped face—one of those ghastly angular cuts women preferred today. LaCroix sighed. He so missed long hair. Done up in intricate twists and braids, with pearl pins and ribbons, golden combs and jewels, rivulets of luscious curls, dazzling ringlets, or let loose and full, adorned only with wildflowers. How he had enjoyed running his fingers through such luxurious locks before he drank…

It seemed to LaCroix that the present times had lost much more than would ever be gained—despite the various nasty wars and little uprisings which popped up now and again to tantalize him…A pity. But enough reminiscing! His thoughts returned to the girl.

Pleasant green eyes, interested in their surroundings. And in him, LaCroix reminded himself, chucking softly. Quite a dangerous endeavor for just about anyone—especially a mortal. Her lashes were long and thick, framing her eyes, making them appear larger than they were. Her nose was small, almost pixie-like. Medium-sized but well-defined lips were pursed in thought, and the girl's chin rested in her left hand, propped up by a crooked index-finger and thumb. The nails of her hands were free of polish, a natural and youthful pink, with long, graceful white tips.

She had a petite but strong looking frame, and wore a long black leather coat, a rich dark green blouse and a good deal of intricate sterling-silver jewelry: earrings, necklace, and a lovely ring adorned with Celtic knots and a simple garnet at its center, which shone black, then deep crimson in the flickering lights of The Raven.

Of all her adornments though, her necklace intrigued him most. It was on a short, thick chain, almost a choker. The charm hanging from the chain was comprised of two intertwining wyverns, one silver, the other black. Each was biting the other's tail, and together they formed an intricately woven circle. The folded wings of each wyvern, one set on either side, framed the circle nicely, adding the final touch of elegance to the necklace. Interesting, thought LaCroix. A strange trinket for such a slip of a girl. It rested lightly on her breast bone just below the cleft at her throat, where her pulse beat steady and strong. LaCroix liked that even better.

From the leg which poked out from beneath the table, LaCroix could also see that she wore graceful knee-high leather boots, with fold-down front flaps and slightly pointed toes. A pretty little thing, but she does not belong here, he thought. She'd obviously tried to dress the part, but she just wasn't the type to frequent The Raven. The girl wanted something—something involving him. Tonight was certainly going to be… entertaining. Well, it was getting close to dinnertime anyway…

LaCroix sensed the girl's slight movement as she prepared to rise from her chair. She was mustering up the courage to confront him. A lamb entering a wolf's den. As he took another sip from his wine glass LaCroix debated if he should "notice" her yet. He decided against it, because to do so might frighten her off. He didn't want his meal scampering away—not when it was practically offered up to him on a silver platter. Even a hunter like himself enjoyed a little room service now and then. So, as the girl approached him, LaCroix pretended to be lost in thought as he mechanically sipped his drink.

He heard her rather loud mortal footsteps stop near his table and felt the vibration as her fingers lightly pressed against the polished wood of the table. She leaned in to speak. "Excuse me," the girl whispered tentatively, "May I ask you a question?" LaCroix's cat-like gaze oriented on his prey, staring directly into her eyes. The girl's eye-lids lifted slightly, revealing more of the white orb beyond the green iris. The pupils narrowed, and the breath caught in her throat for an instant. Already she was nervous. Wonderful! Smart girl this one! thought LaCroix cheerfully. "I'm sorry…what did you say?" he asked, though he knew perfectly well. "I didn't quite catch it."

"I just…wanted to ask you a question."

"Certainly. Sit down and ask your question." He gestured to the chair opposite him and leaned forward, steepling his fingers and then slowly interlocking them to await her query.

The girl slipped gracefully into the proffered chair and sat looking at him for a moment. She licked her lips and then cleared her throat softly.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I was just wondering….are you….are you the guy with that late-night radio show on CERK…the NightCrawler?"

A pang of annoyance flared through him. He should have expected her to ask something stupid like that. Ah, well. What else can you expect from a mortal? LaCroix smiled anyway, allowing it reach his eyes as he envisioned sinking his teeth into the soft, warm flesh of her neck. "Yes…as a matter of fact I am."

The girl's eyes lit up and she smiled brightly back at him, revealing a mouth of almost perfect teeth.

"I thought I recognized your voice, she said softly but emphatically. "It's a difficult one to forget."

"Oh? And how did you get interested in my little program?"

"Well, since you asked, I was working late one evening—I'm a writer you see—and I needed something to listen to, to break the deafening silence and to help me chase off my writer's block. So I turned on the radio and picked a station out of the blue and just listened for a while. Then I got up to grab a quick cup of coffee, and then you came on. Your voice stopped me in my tracks. Literally. I forgot all about the coffee and sat back down to listen, to drink in the sound of your voice. I've been hooked ever since. I must say, you've been a great help in alleviating my writer's block!"

"Well…one does what one can," LaCroix purred amusedly.

She laughed.

"And do you like the show's content as well?"

"Oh yes. I find it very thought-provoking, but it always makes me a little sad."

"The truth is often painful, my dear."

"Yes, I suppose it is. But you're so cynical. I find that very sad, yet I'm drawn to what you say, because of its core of truth."

"Experience, you will find my dear, is an exacting and harsh teacher, which settles for nothing less than the bitter truth."

The girl nodded slightly, and closed her eyes for a moment as if formalizing his statement in her mind for future reference.

"And how did you come to find me here, at The Raven?" LaCroix asked, to further the conversation and hopefully hurry it along. He was getting hungry.

"Oh, total chance. I was walking by the other night with some friends, and I heard music I liked, so we ambled in. Then, between songs, I heard you talking to someone. Nicholas I think was the name you used. Then you two started arguing, so I figured I'd better stop eavesdropping, because it wasn't any of my business. So my friends and I had a few drinks and left. But I just kept wondering if it had actually been you, so I came back tonight to find out."

"Hmm." Very wise of you, on that first point my dear girl, LaCroix thought. On the second however…

"So, how do you do it? That voice of yours. Is it just natural or did you craft it for the show?"

Craft it? He'd never thought of it quite that way, but supposed it wasn't all together false. "Well, I've had years of practice, and have learned many ways to…grab people's attention."

Again she laughed. The tinkling of silver bells.

"Years of practice? She mocked good-humoredly. When did you start…when you were four? You don't look old at all!"

LaCroix honored her with a wry smile. "And how old do I look?"

"About…hmm…early to middle forties I'd say."

He chuckled, the sound almost imperceptible to her ears. "And that is not old in your estimation?"

"Not really. I like a face with a little character in it. Men my age are still a little too soft and smooth-faced. Like clay. You need a little crinkle here and there for texture."

"And you think my face has character, do you?"

"Oh, that's easy to see. Your face and voice match nicely. You can learn a lot about a person from their voice, and the face fills in some of the gaps."

"And what do these…attributes…of mine tell you? What do you see?"

"Well, it's in the eyes and mouth mostly. In your eyes I can see great intelligence and knowledge, as well as contentment. It's obvious you're very self-assured—happy where you are in life. Yet your eyes betray a desire for something you can't satisfy."

"You are very perceptive." LaCroix said on cue. He had long ago learned to read the expressions and mannerisms of both his kind and mortals, and thought little of her cursory probing.

"There is an air or worldliness about you," she said continuing. "You must have led a very eventful life so far. Perhaps that's why you're so cynical. Also, the lines of your mouth suggest that you don't smile very often. Not whole-heartedly anyway—with your eyes and teeth. That's the trademark of a real, heart-felt smile. Showing your teeth and letting the mirth drift to your eyes! You seem to me a more thoughtful, mournful person—

introverted. I bet in real life you are the strong, silent type. Am I right?"

"When you have lived as I have, my dear," LaCroix began, not bothering to answer her question, "for as long as I have, you realize that there are few things in life on which it is worthwhile to waste a 'whole-hearted smile'." Then, for effect and a bit of fun, LaCroix gave the girl a glimpse—just for a split-second—of what was really behind his eyes: Hunger.

She blanched. Realizing that she had perhaps gone too far, the girl abruptly changed the subject.

"So…tell me. Do you broadcast the NightCrawler show live, or is it pre-recorded?"

"Oh, always live, of course."

"But it's on so late! How do you do the show every night? Doesn't it get tiring?"

"Let's just say I am a night person."

"I see," she said. The girl glanced at her watch. "Well, I suppose I'd better stop blabbing at you and let you get to the station. I don't want you to be late for your own show! Your loyal listeners would have me for breakfast! Plus, I don't want to miss a word of it!" She grinned secretively at him, her eyes twinkling merrily.

You have no idea how close to the truth you are, my girl! But you will be my dinner, not their breakfast. "No need to fret, my dear. I have plenty of time. I do the show right here at The Raven."

"Here?" She glanced around her at the dimly lit room, filled with small tables, black-clad people, smoke and a myriad of noises—music, talk, laughter, and the occasional pleased growl.

"Where?"

"In a little room in the back. It is much quieter there, I assure you...perfect atmosphere for my show." He smiled slightly.

"Am I to assume then, that you own this club?"

"Indeed I do. Do you like it?"

"Oh yes! I must admit, it is a bit more darkly elegant than the clubs I'm used to, but the music here is a decided improvement."

"Hmm." was all he said.

Suddenly the girl was all smiles and big eyes. "May I see it? The room where you do the show I mean. Just for a second?"

On a silver platter…She is making this entirely too easy, thought LaCroix. Ah, well. Waste not want not. "Certainly. If you would like."

LaCroix rose and walked around the table, extended his hand and drew the girl up gently from her chair. Her hand was firm and warm, her grip strong—for a mortal woman. He broke the contact and spoke. "Follow me." he said softly. LaCroix noted with pleasure that her fingers, after he released her hand, slowly coiled inward, as though to capture forever the sensation of his touch.

As he began to lead the girl away, a member of his staff noticed LaCroix's movement and began to walk toward him, most likely to ask him something woefully unimportant at the moment.

Their eyes met for an instant and he projected the thought: Later. The man nodded slightly in acquiescence and altered his trajectory to chat with a co-worker across the room.

LaCroix and the girl walked together though corridors packed with people—people talking, people kissing, and one couple, making a rather noisy and fitful spectacle of themselves, meshed together against a pillar near the wall. LaCroix walked up to them and waited a moment before acting. As he'd hoped, the girl (who was facing him) noticed his presence, her impassioned eyes focusing on him and acknowledging him in the same instant. Her abrupt halting in motion alerted the man fondling her, and he half turned to meet LaCroix's pleased but slightly reproachful gaze.

_Now Vachon, _LaCroix projected, _you know the rules. Take your dinner to a room. We must not frighten our livelihood away._ He pointed wordlessly in the direction of suitable accommodations and walked onward. LaCroix and the girl passed through several more common rooms before reaching their final destination—the Studio.

"Here it is," LaCroix said and gestured her ahead of him. "The Lair of the NightCrawler." He switched on the light so she could see. He did not need it.

The girl surveyed the little room. Through the single thick-paned window red, green and blue light from beyond the parallel corridor splashed in periodically, casting Technicolor shadows across the walls. A huge reel-to-reel machine and Cart was along one wall, filing cabinets topped with pigeon-hole shelves were along another, and pressed up against the third available wall was a desk with a sound-mixing board and play-back racks around it, forming a U-shaped workspace. A microphone was mounted to the base of the desk-not unlike a podium.

"Wow! This is a pretty high-tech setup!" Her fingers lightly brushed the sound mixing board. "Must have cost a fortune!"

"It did, believe me. But I have the means to afford it."

The girl turned around to face him and smiled wryly. "Lucky devil!" she said and laughed.

Enough. It is time to dine, LaCroix decided.

"What horrible manners I have! I have not even asked you your name."

"Ah," she said dismissively. "No problem. My name is Lisa Carlson." She extended her hand to shake his. "And you, NightCrawler that you are?"

LaCroix took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he grasped it lightly and gently pulled it upward to his lips. He kissed her knuckles and said, "My name is Lucien."

Lisa looked surprised, then pleased. She pulled her hand away slowly. "Lucien…" she said, as if swirling the name around in her mouth like fine wine. "That's lovely. Musical in fact." Lisa smiled. "Dare I ask for your last name?"

"LaCroix," he proffered before she could make up her mind. "Lucien LaCroix."

He noticed that Lisa's pupils dilated significantly. This girl obviously likes French. All the better to seduce you with my dear...

"Je pense que vous etes belle."

"What did you say?" Her eyes and face were pleasantly perplexed, the brow wrinkling charmingly.

"I told you that I think you are very beautiful."

Her face was a kaleidoscope of expressions for a moment. Surprise. Disbelief. Pleasure.

"Thank you." she whispered, and lowered her head, embarrassed.

Ripe for the plucking, he thought and took her chin in his hand and raised it so she was forced to look him directly in the eyes.

"Je ne rents pas, jen ai vu de trop."

"I am not one to lie," he translated. "I have seen too much."

Her eyes grew moist, and she said faintly, "No more French, please…I…I can't understand what you're saying." A tear fell from her eye, rolling down her cheek onto his fingers.

"As you wish," he said and started to pull her toward him, slowly.

LaCroix felt her start to pull away and wondered offhandedly how much more coaxing he was going to have to do before getting his meal. Then she let up a little. As he descended towards her mouth with his own, he felt her stiffen, willing herself to stand and accept his kiss, rather than flee, as she obviously wanted to. Finally, their lips met. It took a few moments, but Lisa finally opened up to him. Her closeness and the smell of her blood—

which emanated from her like perfume—intensified his hunger, and he had to control himself to keep from spearing his tongue into her mouth that he might taste her.

This he did slowly, letting her accept his intrusion before pressing further. When he felt her arms circle around him, her fingers traveling up his back to his neck, finally stopping to caress his close cropped hair, he knew he had her. She was his. He broke off the kiss to look into her eyes. They were fully dilated now. Lisa was hungry now as well—in her fashion. Perfect.

"It's so strange," said Lisa when she had gained her breath. "Your touch is cold, yet you electrify me."

"Those with the coldest hands," LaCroix whispered in his best NightCrawler voice, "often have the fiercest of hearts." The sound of his voice seemed to open a door inside her, and Lisa accepted his next kiss with ardor, returning it with a passion that signaled to LaCroix that things could get a little more…intense.

More to my liking! he thought, and began to remove her leather coat. When that had slipped to the floor, LaCroix broke away again and began to deftly unbutton her forest green blouse. He unbuttoned it only enough to reveal her neck and shoulders, peeling it away from her skin as if unwrapping a precious, fragile gift. He then proceeded in a fiery line from her lips, to her cheek then her ear, neck, throat and then returned to her neck. Once there, he lightly nipped at her skin, to see how she would react.

To his delight, she responded with an intake of breath, which was exhaled in a pleasantly deep-throated growl. Taking that as a cue to continue, LaCroix finished unbuttoning Lisa's blouse and draped it on top of her coat in a gleaming puddle of green silk. He then led Lisa to his elegant black leather swivel chair by the microphone, where he gently sat her down and removed her boots, socks and pants—slowly and sensually so Lisa felt every caress of his fingers as he did this.

Underneath her silk and leather, Lisa wore a simple cotton bra and panties, unadorned save the fact that the panties were of a high cut, revealing much of her creamy thighs, and a single small red satin rose, stitched into the brassiere between her breasts.

Simple, quaint, and a trifle boring, but a little variety never hurts, LaCroix thought as he looked at the undergarments which caressed her near-naked form. All leather and no cotton makes LaCroix a dull vampire. He stood Lisa up, making short work of those as well and soon she stood naked before him. Very pretty. A nymph in the prime of her youth. He was really going to enjoy himself tonight. But then, he always did.

He kissed her again, slowly, hungrily until she was forced to break away, breathless. When she had regained it, she looked up at him, her eyes flickering over his face as if searching it, memorizing it for all time. Lisa looked him up and down, this man she hardly knew, clad entirely in black and perfectly suited to that fickle, elegant color. Her next words completely surprised him.

"You are very beautiful, Lucien." LaCroix could not remember the last time any woman had called him beautiful, only once or twice in centuries long since past. Now the word seemed strange to him, golden in its antiquity.

"Thank you Lisa," he said in his deepest, richest tones, emulating the emotion he could not let himself feel. He would not, for he was a hunter, a vampire, and a vampire's heart must be cold. LaCroix kissed her again, letting the Hunger rise up in him like a dark, thick wave, yet holding The Beast at bay for a few moments longer…just a few more moments.

LaCroix scooped Lisa up into his arms, nudged the chair away, and lightly deposited her upon the desk beside the mounted microphone. He felt her grasp his shirt, attempting to pull it over his head. He gently pushed her arms away and kissed her deeply, his arms encircling her back, his fingers tracing lazy lines along the soft warm skin. As he pressed in closer to her, his body and clothes lightly brushed her inner thighs, and as he knew she would, Lisa forgot about the shirt entirely. It wouldn't do for him to remove his clothes. He had no need to, and besides, he had a show to do in a few minutes. LaCroix continued to kiss her, more urgently now, for his Hunger would soon get the better of him. He kissed her lips and then her chin, and moved his tongue over her throat and neck. Next he moved to her breasts, which he suckled, first one, until the nipple became hard beneath his tongue and Lisa moaned softly, then the other, until he could wait no more.

LaCroix kissed her one final time, bruising and biting her lips. Then he nuzzled her neck, feeling her soft hair on his face and smelling the enticing scent of her blood. Finally The Beast was upon him, and LaCroix felt The Change. His eyes glowed red and his fangs extended, sharp and white and deadly. The Beast roared with triumph and he yanked Lisa's head aside, exposing her neck for the kill. LaCroix bit down and tasted salt and sweat before his fangs pierced the tender flesh and the blood—the fresh, warm blood—began to gush forth into his mouth. Ecstasy rocked him with such force that he barely heard Lisa's shriek of pain and terror as it changed in pitch from that to a deeper, more resonant howl of intense pleasure. He did however, feel her legs wrap staunchly about him, as well as her fingers as they gripped his head until they were white-knuckled, pressing him closer, closer to her body and to the center of her pleasure, which was now the punctures in her neck.

Suddenly, LaCroix and Lisa were in rapport, and each felt the other's thoughts and shared each other's memories. Pleasure became a live thing: dark and warm and pulsing, thick with power and full of a whispering that was akin to music. The throbbing of their hearts quickened and synchronized, becoming a single, deafening pulse like the frantic beating of many wings, the sound filling their ears and minds. Pleasure and Pain, Male and Female, Life and Death became one in those brief, exquisite moments, and Hunter and Hunted were equal as they never were before and never would be again. Finally Lisa became aware that her lifeblood was slipping away, being drained from her and received by her lover. Yet somehow she did not mind this. Lisa knew distantly that she should be angry, furious in fact, for she was about to die. But she was not.

LaCroix withdrew his fangs from her neck when he felt her body go completely limp, and was just a little surprised that Lisa was not yet dead. She looked back at him, not with fear or hatred, but in absolute wonderment. Lisa tried to touch his face with her hand, but could not. She no longer had the strength. Instead she asked the only thing that would come to her failing mind,

"Did you…enjoy…yourself?"

"Yes, very much." LaCroix replied, for there was no point in lying to her, dying as she was.

"Good…" she breathed. Then all her remaining life flowed into her eyes, and they gleamed—two luminous pools of emerald—and just as shining and priceless. Suddenly, the light from behind her eyes winked out, and she went silent and still.

LaCroix gazed at Lisa awhile longer, licked his lips and smiled—whole-heartedly. He laid her body against him a moment, but only to remove the beautiful necklace of wyverns from her throat and the garnet ring from her finger. He put the trinkets on the desk and the lifted Lisa's now heavy body from it, placing it carefully on the floor. He knelt beside her, closing her eyes with his hand, and draped her long black coat over her like a shroud. Then LaCroix walked calmly and gracefully to his black swivel chair, glanced at his watch and then picked up the necklace once again. He gazed at it for a few minutes, watching it dangle and sway slightly from his fingers. This will make a lovely present for Jannette, when our paths cross again… The ring he would keep for himself.

LaCroix laughed softly, flipped the "On Air" light and control switch, turned on the sound board and the microphone, and began to speak into the silence. Now he was the NightCrawler.

"Bonsoir, mes amis. Je suis moi, the NightCrawler. Tonight we shall discuss one of humanity's most notorious emotions…Curiosity. It has often been said that curiosity kills the cat…and so it does…."


End file.
